


The Tiniest of Drabbles

by thisstarvingartist



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but these drabbles are primarily rinch, root/shaw in chapter 7, short stories compilation, tiny drabbles compilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstarvingartist/pseuds/thisstarvingartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a compilation of my Tiny Drabbles (also found on my tumblr: <br/>http://whiskerknittles.tumblr.com/tagged/the%20tiniest%20of%20drabbles )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beginning... (F/R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning...

…There were days that, when they didn’t have a number, he wouldn’t come to the library at all, and in a half-terrified frenzy, Finch would check every bar and pub within a fifty mile radius, only to find Reese sitting alone on the couch in his apartment with a bottle of water in his hand, staring at the ceiling with an incredible expression of boredom. Finch would sigh, and activate their comm link.

“You do realize, Mr. Reese, that even when we don’t have a number, you’re still welcome to come to the library.” A pause. “At least here there’s something to read.”

And John’s blank stare would blossom into a slow, satisfied smile, blue eyes glittering, and he would rise to his feet.

“You know, Finch,” Reese said, already halfway to the door, “if you aren’t careful, I might start thinking you actually want me around.”

“We’ve both come to stranger conclusions with less available data, Mr. Reese.”


	2. Have You Done This Before? (F/R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vague smut ;)

Harold pulled at the drawstrings of John’s pants until he was nose-to-groin with the man, though it was difficult to maintain an air of sexual allure when the man above him was laughing too hard to stand still.

“Honestly, John,” Harold chided, trying to bite down his own smile, and when he couldn’t succeed in doing so, he put his forehead against John’s stomach, effectively blocking the other man’s view of his grin.

He lifted his head just slightly, placing a soft kiss on the skin just below John’s belly button, and a shiver of goose bumps ran over him. He gripped Harold’s shoulders, gently, and his expression communicated vague uncertainty but more than a fair amount of excitement at Harold’s actions.

“If you… you don’t have to do this,” John told him, and Harold snorted , the puff of air gusting over his partner’s bare skin.

John stared at him incredulously. “Have—have you done this before?”

Harold peered up at him, expression unreadable.

“As I told you on the day we met, I am a very private person, John.”

John laughed good-naturedly. Then he gasped.


	3. A Matter of Perspective (F/R)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guest starring Root and Shaw

The role Harold was to play was that of a nondescript insurance agent, the perfect target for a business executive who needed a fall man for a money laundering deal gone awry. Their number was a good target for such a fall, but if Harold stepped in at just the right time, he’d be able to intercept the executive’s attention and they could save his life. Unfortunately, the mission came with one specific setback: he needed a wife as a cover for the annual office party, in which he would be introducing his family. If he had known that he was meant to introduce his family, he would have made an alias that was single.

“I could say we are having trouble in the marriage,” Harold said, examining the data on his computer as he spoke. “Or perhaps that she is too busy to attend.”

“Harold, this needs to look concrete,” John said from the opposite side of the room. “You can’t say you have a wife, then not bring her to the office party. COO might get suspicious.”

“I think it’s going to be fun,” Root said with a smile, her fingers toying with Shaw’s hair as they sat together on the cot. “What’s the matter, Harold? Don’t you want me to play the doting wife?”

Harold winced. “Please, Ms. Groves. That’s hardly realistic.”

“Realistic?” John asked.

“Well, Mr. Reese, it might be a bit difficult to convince anyone that someone like Ms. Grooves would ‘dote’ on someone like me.”

He was looking at Harold, now, though Harold wouldn’t look up to see it. “Harold, I think I’m missing something. What do you mean, someone like you?”

Now, Harold did look up. “Mr. Reese, I would appreciate it if you didn’t play games with me. I’m well aware that I’m not as…  physically attractive as Ms. Groves. Seeing as I will be acting as an insurance agent, it is clear I’m not overflowing with expendable cash, so I feel justified in my concern that she won’t be believable as my spouse.”

John stared at him, confusion evident. “Harold… don’t you think you’re attractive?”

Harold blinked. “Mr. Reese, I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“I’m not handing them out just to make you feel better.” He stood up, walking over and placing his hand on Harold’s shoulder. “You’re beautiful, Harold.”

Harold blinked again, bewildered. “I… thank you, John.”


	4. Glad (F/R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reese gets exceptionally drunk, and it’s a party so Finch will let it pass (even if Reese keeps making passes at him)

Reese was grinning at him again. Finch politely ignored the look, his gaze fixed forward.

“I like your glasses,” Reese said, his arm sliding across the bar table behind Harold and moving him ever so slightly closer. He was practically sideways, laying across it, and Finch’s eyes flickered down to look at him with a mildly concerned, mostly disgruntled expression.

“I believe you mentioned your affinity for them a few hours ago,” Finch informed him, “And almost every minute since.” He touched the frames attentively, despite his words.

“They look _really_ nice,” Reese told him, sliding closer, while Finch scooted just slightly away. “You always look nice.”

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said, warning, as the man took a smooth sip of scotch and placed the glass back onto the counter. “I’m quite certain you’ve had far too much to drink to say anything you won’t regret later, so I suggest that you simply stop talking right now.”

“You already know what I’m going to say,” Reese said, sounding fairly confident. “You know everything about me.”

“I know an exceptional amount about you, Mr. Reese,” Finch agreed. “That doesn’t mean I have the ability to read your mind.”

“But you know,” Reese said, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm to his splayed body, “How I _feel_.”

“You don’t want to have this conversation,” Finch said, with a faintly alarmed tone. They didn’t discuss it—the mutual _feeling_ between them. It was easier—safer—to simply pass it off as nothing, as a close working bond forged from so much time spent on the front lines together. That _was_ all it was. That’s all it would ever be.

“I’m happy,” Reese said, and Finch looked down at him fully, then. “You make me happy.”

“I… I’m glad,” Finch told him.

Reese nodded, and sat back in the barstool, looking perfectly satisfied to just leave it at that.

Finch noted, now, that he was the one staring at John, and silently berated himself for allowing himself to become so invested in this man, far more than an employee, a simple partner.

“…To be perfectly clear, John, you also make me happy.”

John looked up at him, beaming like a ray of sunshine in the dark pub, and said, “I’m glad.”


	5. Distraction (F/R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The we-gotta-kiss-each-other-so-no-one-actually-knows-what-we’re-up-to trope is the best trope
> 
> (pre-4x11 rinch shmoop)

“John, kiss me, before—”

Finch didn’t have to finish, it seemed, because then John’s lips were on his own, strong and warm and oddly unexpected, considering Finch had been the one to ask for it.

He sort of melted into the touch, mostly because it seemed that (like everything else) John Reese had no idea how to do anything halfway. He curved into Finch, one hand bracing his arm firmly against his side, the other placed with a trained precision on the small of Finch’s back, holding him in place but giving him the room to pull away, should he so desire.

He did not. Kissing John was entirely something new that he had absolutely never expected to be doing, and certainly never with this much enthusiasm. He’d never kissed a man before; it seemed like a completely useless, pointless piece of information to have, because the novelty of being pressed up against John had absolutely nothing to do with the man’s sex and everything to do with that man being _John_.

He tasted sweet, and warm, and it occurred faintly to Finch that John’s tongue didn’t _actually_ have to be in his mouth to make the kiss appear convincing, but there was absolutely no chance whatsoever of him complaining about it. His hands, which had been braced somewhat uselessly on John’s chest for the duration of the contact, slowly lifted to cup his jaw, and he seemed to take that as a gesture that he was moving in the right direction, because he sighed into it, raising the hand on his elbow to run through the short hairs on the nape of Finch’s neck.

“Number’s moved, we’re in the clear,” Shaw said flatly beside them, sounding rather irritable; although, with Shaw that didn’t really mean anything, since she was usually irritable. But then the extra tongue in his mouth was gone and Harold realized that John was pulling away—

“Look, you boys can play tonsil hockey any time we’re not on a case, okay?” Shaw growled, eyeing them impatiently. “Really, just do it any time _I’m_ not around. I don’t care. Right now we’ve got a number to track.”

Finch released his grip on John’s collar somewhat sheepishly, though John appeared entirely satisfied with the sudden turn of events; he was practically glowing. He smiled at Finch, catching his hand before it fell completely to his side and interlocking their fingers.

“Let’s get to work, then,” John said cheerfully.


	6. Dreamer (F/R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by this lovely rinch comic: http://riza-nusdy.tumblr.com/post/113165528470/poi-kitty-its-cold-outside-rf
> 
> It didn’t hit me until now that I don’t have to write a new chapter of ALToW every night… apparently, I can’t just quit cold-turkey with my rinch fluff. Have a drabble!

It was early morning, too early to be awake, though a small part of Harold was. He was half asleep in his bed at home, swathed in blankets, one hand nestled in the soft hair on top of John’s head where it lay comfortably on his chest. It was nice, to be there tucked in bed, feeling John’s body pressed warmly against his side.

There was only one small problem. John wasn’t supposed to be in his house.

As soon as the thought entered his mind Harold was upright and wide awake. He looked down to see Bear—not John, but Bear—pricking his ears and pulling away from Harold’s unexpectedly flailing body. Harold let out a small sigh, equal parts relieved and annoyed. This had not been the first time he’d mistaken the dog in his bed for his darkly mysterious, gun-wielding partner, though it was becoming quite tiresome.

He couldn’t be entirely surprised by it, he supposed. John was a bit of a security blanket for him, really; a suave, sultry voice in his ear, glittering, starry eyes, a drop-dead gorgeous smile and figure that—well, Harold wasn’t _blind_ , nor was he decidedly heterosexual, and the idea of John running those strong, well trained hands over his body, protecting him…

He shook himself gently, tempered his eager libido, and insisted to himself that, really, the only reason he felt for John so strongly was because of the unquestionably strong bond they had forged through their partnership in protecting the numbers. To be fair, it was a partnership completely unlike anything Harold had ever had with anyone else.

Rick Dillinger absolutely didn’t count as anything even remotely close to a partnership, Harold thought coldly.

\--

The next time Harold awoke with ‘John’ pressed up against him, he kept his eyes screwed shut, and pushed Bear’s head off of his chest.

“Get off the bed,” he muttered irritably. “You’re not supposed to be up here.”

“Should I take the floor, then?” A low, amused voice asked, and Harold froze, hands still in John’s—the _real_ John’s—hair.

Ah, yes. He’d taken John home with him the previous night. He’d quite forgotten.

John pressed his nose against Harold’s neck and breathed deeply, sighing out with a soft squeeze of strong arms around Harold’s middle. It felt… natural. Familiar.

“Do I really have to go?” John whispered against Harold’s skin, making it prickle pleasantly.

“Ah—no, I suppose not.”

He felt John’s smile and the soft huff of breath as he let out a quiet laugh. “Thanks, Harold. I appreciate it.”

Harold spent the remainder of the morning getting used to the feeling of a gangly human wrapped around him on one side, and a large Belgian Malinois on the other, and trying very, very hard not to let John notice that he was blushing.


	7. Make Me (R/S)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shoot drabble-- also found on my tumblr, somewhere in the abyss.

There was something Root found obscenely endearing in the way Sameen reacted to her casual flirtations. Especially charming, she thought, was how when she tried so hard to provoke her, she might barely get a response, yet just a little light prodding over something Root thought wasn’t a particularly big deal (i.e., cleaning one of Sameen’s guns in the subway station during some idle night) might get her very, very riled up.

“Put that _down_ ,” Sameen growled, her tone dark and voice low, but it carried over from the entrance of the subway to Harold’s desk, where Root sat and continued to gently wipe clean the barrel of Shaw’s pistol, her touch light and reverent.

She looked up at Shaw, flashing her a teasing, foxlike smile.

“Hello, Sameen,” she said, the name leaving with a tingling sweetness on her lips. “It’s a little late to be coming down for a visit, isn’t it? You must have been eager to see me.”

“Root, put that damn thing down, _now_.” Shaw’s voice had a clip to it, a bite that set off faint warning bells in the back of Root’s mind. She wasn’t in _danger_ , not by a long shot—Sameen certainly wasn’t angry enough to try anything that might get blood on the floor, not after Harold’s last reaction to physical confrontation in the subway—but something about the inflection suggested that there might be something particular about the gun that she was missing.

There was, though she never got to find out. Her last words, with a cloying, toothy smirk aimed at the woman standing before her, were “Come over here and make me.”

With the intent of a trained killer and the stride of a lithe wildcat, Shaw approached the desk, pulled back the chair and leaned down over Root.

“Fine,” she whispered. Root’s pulse ticked faster and she felt the chair leaning back as Shaw moved in for the kill.


	8. Lactic Acid F/R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John is very sore and Harold likes to give massages.

Harold was at his desk when John stepped into the library, a welcome, familiar sight for his weary eyes to absorb.

There was no number, and hadn’t been for almost twenty-four hours—nothing since a kid named Grady Branson had managed himself into a somewhat uncomfortable situation with a local gang: ironically cut-and-dry when compared to their usual cases.

However, although not particularly complicated, the final pursuit of Grady’s attempted assassins forced John to launch himself from a third floor window and into a dumpster on the opposite side of a narrow alleyway. He was lucky, really: no bullet wounds, no broken bones. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so unbelievably sore.

He sat heavily on the couch, wincing at the sharp ache in his muscles, and didn’t bother to contain the small groan of displeasure that hissed through his clenched teeth. The sound of Harold’s chair suddenly rolling back warned John of his error, but it was already too late, and the older man was on his feet and approaching John with unmasked intent.

“Mr. Reese, you informed me you hadn’t been injured,” Harold said seriously, reaching out for him. John waved him away, clenching his jaw as he did so. “I’m fine, Finch; nothing’s broken, nothing’s  bruised—I’m just a little sore, that’s all.”

“Certainly you don’t expect me to just accept that as an appropriate excuse,” Harold said, his voice clipped. “Take off your shirt.”

“Why?” John asked, but his hands were already unfastening the buttons, an automatic response to Harold’s cool order.

“I believe we agreed to be honest with each other, Mr. Reese, and I must insist that that includes honesty in _all_ things, be them large or small,” he chirped as John’s jacket and dress shirt were removed in one swift—though slightly stiffer than normal—motion, followed soon after by his undershirt. “On your stomach, please.”

There were many unusual things that John had done in his career as a spy, but there was something particularly unique about having Harold’s skilled, confident fingers gliding across his back, pushing and molding the hard flesh until it turned supple and hot in his hands.

“The reason muscles become sore is actually due to the lactic acid that fills the tears in your muscular tissue that result after intense physical stress. Did you know that lactic acid is essentially a poison? It settles in the damaged muscles and prevents them from healing efficiently, causing the body’s physical pain response which we recognize as soreness. Massaging forces the acid to move and shift, giving the muscle room to repair itself. Hold still, John,” Harold scolded when John shrugged beneath him.

“Sorry,” John grunted, wincing. “I’m not exactly used to this kind of manhandling.”

“Oh, please,” Harold puffed, and his hands disappeared.

Stifling the disappointed sigh that built up in his throat, John filed away ‘manhandling’ as one of the words he should avoid when flirting with Harold. It was quite possibly his favorite pastime—despite the dull ache in his chest when he forced himself to acknowledge that Harold would never reciprocate his affections—to test just how far Harold would allow him to go with his teasing before another line was drawn.

He had been hoping the massage would continue on for a while longer, but unfortunately it seemed that that would not be the case. He moved to sit up, when Harold’s hand suddenly returned, and lowered him back flat onto the couch.

“Please remain in this position until I give you permission to do otherwise, Mr. Reese,” Harold said calmly, with that tone and the words that made John’s body tingle, and he forced himself to settle back and hear the pop of a plastic bottle lid, the slick sound of Harold’s hands warming the salve in his hands before they were back on his bare skin.

He shivered, wanting to speak and ease the tension within himself, but his throat had closed up, so he simply shut his eyes and gripped the edge of the couch, letting Harold’s hands take him wherever the man wanted them to go.


	9. A Tale of Two Cities (F/R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Mithveaen - A storm broke one of the library’s windows, and while Finch and Reese clean up, Finch tells Reese about his favorite book.
> 
> I apologize for not quite sticking to the prompt here, Mithveaen-–I had a truly difficult time attempting to chose an adequate book which Finch would reasonably call his favorite, and, well, by the time I had this was already half written. I hope you enjoy it, anyway!

It was very late at night to be in the library—although, to be fair, Reese would likely still have been awake despite the hour, prowling the apartment floor or cleaning his arsenal, had he not received Finch’s distressed call just half an hour before. The thunderstorm that had struck the city with an inexplicable force in the late afternoon had not dissipated, it seemed, before shattering a set of glass panels in the farther ‘J’ section of the library, and wreaking havoc on the nearest six shelves. First and second editions were strewn haphazardly across the floor, pages rumpled and covers damp from the rain.

They’d cleaned up the worst of it, and Finch’s mood had evened out considerably—he had been as livid as Reese had ever seen him upon his arrival, scowling and going so far as to shout at the makeshift window guard whenever it billowed hazardously inwards.

Reese didn’t have to say that he would have the frames reinforced when he installed them the next day. It was an unspoken understanding they seemed to have developed; Reese anticipated Finch’s desires, like a well-trained watchdog, and responded accordingly. He stored away the tiny, approving smiles and appreciative nods he received from the other man for times when he was alone, and felt like wallowing in something other than self-hatred and distain.

Reese bent down and picked up a sore looking number titled _The Trial_ , its cover leaking woeful tears onto the wooden library floor. It was one of the more tragic looking ones; most seemed to have escaped the brunt of the water.

“Kafka isn’t looking too good, Finch,” Reese said as he handed the pathetic thing to Finch. Finch took the waterlogged book carefully, placing it open-faced on the desk.

“I suppose even in his literature he is prone to unfortunate bad luck,” Finch sighed, his fingers hovering just above the exposed pages before he pulled away and continued his business of replacing the salvaged books onto their appropriate shelves.

Reese smiled softly, and let out a light chuckle. Finch continued his work, not turning to look back at him.

“I can’t help but find his writing fascinating, if not incredibly morbid,” Finch continued. “Although I wouldn’t consider myself one for cheerful literature, Kafka’s examination of life as a whole is thoroughly troubling. Have you read any of his work?”

“ _Metamorphosis_ , in high school,” Reese said.

“Hmm, a perfect example of Kafka’s self-deprecating mindset,” Finch said, as if in agreement. “A fascinating short story, true.”

“What’s your favorite book, Harold?” Reese asked, suddenly. Finch did look up then, turning to face Reese with a faintly surprised look. Reese was surprised, too; he didn’t generally ask direct questions, when talking to Finch. It was a learned habit, when working with paranoid people like his partner for so long. Direct questions almost never produced valuable answers, especially when they were just pulled out of the blue.

Finch was silent a moment, his stare calculating as he eyed Reese, perhaps looking for an angle. Eventually he dropped his gaze, considering.

“That’s a bit difficult a question, Mr. Reese. Of course Kafka is a talented writer but I hardly would consider him one of my favorites. I suppose Jane Austen has some merits; her impressions of life and love in the eighteenth century are quite captivating. Ray Bradbury’s _Fahrenheit 451_ is rather exceptional. I read Kate Chopin’s _The Awakening_ the other day; it was quite thought provoking.”

He looked at Reese again, for a long, thoughtful moment.

It was those moments, those considering moments when Finch’s eyes would move about him, intent and invasive, penetrating his flesh, staring into his soul. His stomach twisted, a familiar feeling. Finch had that sort of effect on him, he’d noticed. Likely, Finch had noticed at some time or another, too, but he never mentioned it. A small kindness, Reese assumed.

“I suppose _A Tale of Two Cities_ must be the one. Have you read it?”

Reese shook his head, wishing very much that he had, if only to impress Finch.

Finch smiled faintly at him. “I’ll have to lend it to you. It’s really quite a wonderful read. Although I fear you may associate yourself too closely with Sydney Carton—I assure you, the only commonalities the two of you have are your dedications to the people you love.”

“Yes,” Reese said, and Finch paused. The air seemed to still about them, and Reese took in a breath, wondering if it would be wildly inappropriate to ask Finch if he would read the book _to_ him. Finch had a wonderfully relaxing voice, a safety harness keeping Reese from slipping over the edge, a trusted gleam of light in the otherwise dark abyss Reese called home.

He’d already taken a risk asking a question of Finch in the first place, however, and his bravery was spent.

“John,” Finch said, and Reese felt a chill spread across his skin at the sound. He waited.

It took a moment for Finch to continue. He seemed almost surprised that he had spoken at all.

“Yes, Harold?” Reese asked, softly.

“I’ll bring the book to the library as soon as possible, Mr. Reese.”

“Okay, Finch.”

It wasn’t often that Finch anticipated _Reese’s_ desires, but when it happened, he was always ludicrously on point. “… If you’d like, I could read the book to you, during stakeouts. If memory serves, they can be incredibly tedious in silence, and I know you’re not usually a fan of long afternoons reading on the couch.”

If that couch had Finch, sitting alongside him with a book in his hands, then Reese absolutely wouldn’t mind at all. But even over the comm, while watching a number, Reese could imagine Finch’s steady voice reading aloud his favorite novel, and his heart thudded pointedly in his chest. “Yeah, Finch, that sounds great.”

Finch smiled at him again. “I find the idea rather appealing myself.”


	10. Much Needed Rest (F/R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr anon said: Still looking for prompts? How about this: Harold's been exhausting himself, so John drags him off and MAKES him rest...Hope you feel better soon!
> 
> Thanks anon! <3 <3 So, so, so sorry for not getting to this sooner, I was very unexpectedly overrun this weekend with an endless strain of activities that prevented me from responding to this prompt. I am ALWAYS eager to receive fic prompts, and I truly hope you will find and enjoy this one!!

John had been watching Harold’s head bob very, very slowly back and forth in front of his computer for the past several hours, and it was beginning to become more pronounced. With every dip he sank closer and closer to the keyboard, the lids of his eyes sinking lower and lower. His right pinky was working harder than John had ever seen before, hitting delete almost regularly as he typed out line after line of code.

“You should get some rest, Harold,” John told him.

Harold’s back straightened immediately and he widened his eyes at the screen, defiant, and redoubled his work. “I assure you, Mr. Reese, I don’t need it.”

John raised an eyebrow at him, standing up from his chair and stalking calmly across the subway station floor. Harold sensed his approach, ever aware of his partner’s movement, but didn’t react to it. He stood silently behind Harold, staring at the computer screen.

It was generally quite rare for John to go down into the subway station and not find Harold working at his computer. However, it was also not usual for him to remain underground for more than a few hours at a time—and by John’s estimation, he hadn’t tasted fresh air in almost seventy-two hours. John had gotten into the habit of keeping track of Harold’s movements long before Samaritan had taken over the city and driven them into hiding, long before it became responsibility—no, _necessity—_ to watch over him.

At first it had been playful, a bit of a game between the two of them which Harold (somewhat begrudgingly) played. But then it changed, because Harold… Harold was important. Harold was more important than anything. And John was the _king_ of self-punishment and pain but when it came to others, people _he_ was responsible for, it simply wasn’t acceptable for them to suffer.

“Finch,” John said, placing his hand on Harold’s shoulder. “You need to _sleep_.”

The moment he initiated physical contact, Harold’s hands stilled. He turned in his chair to face John, glaring at him scathingly, but the effect was lost when John’s gaze was drawn to the obvious bags beneath his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m busy.”

“Too busy to sleep?” John crossed his arms, smiling faintly. “Even computer geniuses need their rest.”

“Mr. Reese—”

“Harold. I’m not letting this go.”

Harold was one so bold he would stare John down, unblinking, for long minutes until he relented to the man’s sheer force of will and bowed his head in submission. But he was so tired and weary that his eyes fluttered shut and the effect was lost. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I can’t sleep.”

It was as much of an admission of his current emotional state as he’d ever offered. John touched his shoulder again, more tentatively this time. Strategically placed for reassurance, not force. “Let me help you.”

\--

“…Mr. Reese, I’m not entirely certain that this is appropriate.”

Very shortly after their primary hideout had transitioned from the library to the subway station, John had brought down the necessities of a secure home base: mini fridge, microwave, first aid and emergency kits in aces around the place, and a small futon. Harold had _not_ been utilizing the futon to the fullest extent of its usage, so upon unfolding it, dressing it, and divesting himself and Harold to only their slacks and undershirts—an adventure that had been particularly enjoyable with Harold’s soft and ruffled protests—they were now tucked snugly beneath two sheets and a large comforter.

Both of them.

John had his arms wrapped around Harold’s torso and was curled protectively around him; his nose was pressed gently against the nape of the older man’s neck. If he could have been any more pleased, he would have been purring. Harold was less thrilled with the arrangement. He shifted, his heart beating rapidly, and John tried not to smile too widely at the other man’s discomfort because, really, it was oh so endearing and adorable.

“Harold, relax,” John murmured against the shell of his ear, warm breath brushing over the delicate skin. “Go to sleep. I promise you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I… alright.”

Eventually, his nervous moving and twitching stopped, and inch by inch John felt Harold’s body relaxing against him, warm and safe, and when he softly began to snore John couldn’t stop himself from pressing an endlessly gentle kiss on the back of his head before closing his own eyes in the pitch darkness of the room and drifting into his own dreamless sleep.


	11. It's Kind of Funny (F/R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s just that there’s actually nothing wrong with this at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt from superjinkyo:
> 
> "Hello! Here's a prompt: Bear has a doggy date, leaving Harold and John to pass the time in the park on their own for a while."
> 
> Thanks so much for the prompt! :)

Considering the sheer amount of violent crime in the city of New York, it was almost surprising for John when he discovered that he and Finch had settled into a sort of routine. On days when the numbers didn’t last until dawn John would get to the Library by seven, always with a hot cup of green tea in one hand and a black coffee in the other. Finch would be waiting at his computers—he never admitted his appreciation for John’s diligence, but the cup was always empty long before John had finished his coffee—with a new number for them to review.

The routine had set itself so subtly in John’s life that he didn’t even notice it until it was suddenly disrupted by an—unanticipated addition to their motley crew.

Bear was a good dog, and John liked taking care of him—even if it meant rearranging his and Harold’s usual morning ritual to include a brisk morning walk before breakfast. Harold, for all his fussing and protests about not wanting a pet, quickly became far more of a mother hen than John had foreseen. The Library was soon littered with dog toys and treats, and Harold purchased only the single most expensive dog leash John had ever touched for him, a luxury John tried to explain would be completely lost on the canine. His comment was met only with a silent glower from the smaller man, before he returned their attention to the number.

And the mothering didn’t stop there.

“A play date?” John said dubiously, eyeing Harold where he was positioned behind his monitors.

“Bear needs some companionship, Mr. Reese,” Harold informed him curtly.

“But with who?”

“I have arranged a date with a completely agreeable chocolate Lab and her owner—they’re the neighbors of Mr. Robin, an alias of mine living on 54th and Seventh. Her name is Marie—the owner; the Lab’s name is Delilah—and they both seem to be very pleasant young women.”

“Harold, you can’t pick Bear’s friends for him. He’s got to get up and meet other dogs all on his own,” John hummed, teasing. Harold’s no-nonsense frown did not waver at John’s evident skepticism.

“If you’d care to refrain from your sarcasm, Mr. Reese, we’re going to be late. Unless you’d prefer to remain here on your own?”

“I think I’d like the fresh air, actually,” John said, standing up to follow Harold and Bear out of the Library.

\--

 It turned out that, as with all other things, Harold had impeccable taste in even canine companions; Delilah and Marie were both delightfully friendly and more than eager to add Bear to their daily game of fetch. Though John was somewhat inclined to join in on the fun, he was still a little sore from their last number, so he and Harold were content to watch from a nearby bench as the trio traipsed through the park with zeal.

“Ice cream?” John asked, and Harold’s eyebrow quirked before he craned himself around to stare at John.

“Excuse me?”

John supposed that he shouldn’t have been surprised that Harold would get offended by such a suggestion; he wouldn’t even directly acknowledge the tea John got him, for god’s sake. He gestured to the nearby ice cream cart. “Would you like some? It’s pretty warm today.”

“… I’m not entirely sure I—”

“Rum rasin?” John asked, getting to his feet and starting towards the cart before Harold could protest that it was barely after eight in the morning.

“Cherry sherbet,” Harold replied automatically, and John dipped his head in acknowledgement before jogging over to the cart.

This kind of domesticity felt almost imaginary, to John; he couldn’t quite believe it, that after all he’d been through and all he’d done, all the harm he caused… he was standing in front of an ice cream cart in Central Park watching his dog play fetch. He wasn’t undercover, he wasn’t pretending—he was _happy_.

It hit him quite suddenly, once in a while, just how happy he really was. How unbelievable it was, to feel wonder at the simple joy of chocolate and cherry ice cream cones. To know that this… this was real. His home base was an abandoned library on the opposite side of the city, not a bunker in Iran. He had an apartment. He _lived_ in that apartment, made breakfast for himself in the kitchen sometimes, eggs benedict. He admitted that he’d never had much a taste for eggs benedict before he learned about Harold’s affinity, but that didn’t make a difference…

And Harold. It was all because of Harold.

His brilliant, bespoke employer watching their dog— _their dog_ , John murmured in his mind, _our dog_ —as he played.

By the time he received their cones Harold had risen to his feet and was crossing the park towards him.

“Here,” John mumbled, handing Harold his cone. Harold issued polite thanks.

“Would you like to walk for a moment with me? I think I’d like the exercise.”

“That sounds fine.”

They perused the farther edge of the park, keeping within visual range of Bear and the girls at all times. In the beginning of their association, John hadn’t even noticed that he was slowing down to match Harold’s slower, shorter pace. It had simply… happened, naturally. John had absolutely no problem adjusting his habits to align with Harold’s.

“…is something bothering you, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked after a long stretch of silence between them.

“Hmm?” John glanced at him. “What?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong; it’s just…” John trailed off, searching.

 _It’s just…_ nothing _is_ _wrong, Harold._

“…Just what, John?”

_It’s just that there’s actually nothing wrong with this at all._

John watched Bear and Delilah chase after a lime green frizbee as it flew across the grassy park quietly. A small, almost helpless smile skipped across his face, and he looked sheepishly at the ground. “You know, Harold…”

“I know what?”

“It’s almost funny.”

“What is?” Harold insisted, at a loss.

John tipped his head back towards the park. “We have a dog.”

“…Well, yes, we do,” Harold agreed, staring at John with a minor hint of concern in his eyes. “I don’t understand why…”

And just like that, it hit Harold too. John laughed a little, a breathy, nervous chuckle, when the color began to grow on Harold’s face, and another silence befell them.

Harold received a text with a new number half an hour later. They returned to collect Bear, thanking Marie politely before heading off to the Library. The silence between them lasted almost all the way to the top of the stairs, when Harold stopped suddenly. John pulled up short too, and Bear’s ears pricked, sensing a sudden shift.

“It is somewhat funny, isn’t it,” Harold said, not looking directly at John as he spoke, “I didn’t even notice before.”

“…You didn’t notice—” John started, but his voice died in his throat when Harold’s gaze suddenly fixed itself intently on his own. He felt his heart stutter, held his breath, as Harold took a careful, near hesitant step towards him. Very softly, Harold’s fingers traced the slope of John’s jaw, and pulled away. Then he smiled.

“You make me _happy_ , John,” Harold said, and John breathed a sigh of relief, smiling at him in return.


End file.
